


Flowing water

by dezemberzarin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Samulet Fix-It (Supernatural), Season/Series 14, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 18:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18451847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dezemberzarin/pseuds/dezemberzarin
Summary: They don't really do birthdays.





	Flowing water

**Author's Note:**

> After twelve years in this fandom, I finally decide to write stuff when it's about to end. Yeah, I don't get me either. 
> 
> Slight canon divergence - Sam never revealed he had the amulet when they found Chuck in season 11.

They don’t really do birthdays. 

When they were kids, sure, Dean still made an effort, especially after Sam went to school and realized the other kids weren’t just getting a shitty grocery store cake with half the icing frosting smeared against the plastic lid (hey, it was half off and in their budget). His go to present for Sammy back then was to liberate a book from the local library, carefully removing the ‘property of’ page to avoid the fit Sam would throw if he knew where it came from. Dean never got the big deal. Watching Sam read the books into a dog-eared, well beloved part of his collection, it was clear his little brother enjoyed them more than any of the library’s regular patrons would. 

Dean’s own gifts were less predictable, mainly drawings Sam made for him when he was younger, cassettes their dad would wrap in newspaper if he was around and Sam pestered him enough. One time he actually brought back a Monopoly board and even though Dean secretly thought that at eleven he was a little too old for board games, that evening of watching Sammy’s face grow more and more outraged as Dean and John took him to the cleaners is still one of Dean’s favorite memories of the three of them together. 

After he got Sam from Stanford, birthdays were usually spent buying each other rounds at a local bar if they weren’t working, sometimes strip clubs if Dean managed to wheedle Sam into it. Getting his brother a lap dance was oh so worth it for the spectacle of watching Sam walk the very fine line of being pissed off at Dean while maintaining an awkwardly pleasant conversation with the performer. 

Maybe there had been something else to that particular fascination. Dean could admit that much to himself after they fell across the invisible line they’d been holding their entire lives a couple of months after their dad died, Sam collapsing into him drunken and handsy one night, desperately clinging wherever Dean tried to pry them apart. 

Sam got his way eventually of course. 

In the aftermath Dean silently added sex to the few special occasion traditions held in the Winchester family – and wasn’t that a gut churning way of putting it, but fuck it, Dean wasn’t one to protest, not anymore. 

The point being, neither of them ever put much emphasis on special occasions. Hell, dad handed him the keys to the Impala on a random Thursday when he was seventeen, grunted something about storage and four-wheel drive and then left Dean blinking in the run-down kitchen of their rental, out the back door before he could express so much as a word of gratitude. He and Sam probably got a lot more of that attitude than either of them would readily admit to. 

So when Sam raises his eyes from the duct-taped copy of _The Stranger beside me_ – Dean has an unfortunate feeling Sam’s gearing up for tearing through that Bundy doc on Netflix – and says “We should do something this weekend.”, it takes Dean a long moment to realize what Sam’s referring to, still trying to think of a way to deter Sam from dragging him into whatever creepy mess that’s going to be. 

“What?” he says belatedly and Sam gives him that unimpressed look he never quite manages to perfect in the last few weeks, eyes too soft whenever they land on Dean. 

“Your birthday,” Sam repeats. “We should do something.” 

Dean raises an eyebrow, never one to let an opportunity slide. “You want to go the traditional way? Because I gotta be honest, Sammy, I don’t think your ass can handle forty.” 

Sam’s eyes dart up and around before he visibly relaxes his shoulders, remembering that for once no one is traipsing around in the vicinity, every member of their merry band of stragglers having flown the coop for the time being. He meets Dean’s gaze with what is probably supposed to be amusement, but which actually settles a lot closer to consideration instead. 

“I don’t think tradition has me on the receiving end.” 

Dean silently exhales. 

They’d been slow to get back onto this particular horse after the Mark, Dean feeling gut-punched any time he remembered how progressively rough the sex had gotten and how little Sam had done to stop him, offering himself as some sort of conduit for Dean to channel his primal aggression through. It had soured this sort of thing for the both of them for a while and it’s really only been in the last year that they’ve gone back to dipping into the rougher side of things again. 

“It does in this family,” Dean replies, waggling his eyebrows for effect until Sam gives him the eye roll he’s fishing for. 

It’s true though. Before or after the Mark, Sam had always enjoyed getting his ass smacked a lot more than Dean ever did. The thought stirs something warm and pleased low in his belly and he shifts, spreading his legs to relieve some of the growing pressure. Sam’s eyes flick to him in that annoying I-know-exactly-what-you’re-doing way but his brother just tilts his head, running a thumb along the edge of the book he’s still holding.

“So?” 

Dean shrugs. “Sure. You know the rules. No gifts, no balloons, no weird alternative indie rock you think counts as music.” 

“Anything else?” Sam asks drily as Dean gets up from the table, tipping his head back to hold his gaze. His brother is definitely amused now and it’s a good look on him, easing some of the lines that seem to be dug permanently into his brow these days. Dean vows he’ll get rid of the remainder in the next hour even if it kills him. He jerks his head towards the hallway leading to the bedrooms. 

“Yeah. Trial run, Sammy.” Dean lets an unrepentant grin take over. “Just to make sure I’ve still got the touch.” 

Being this blatantly smarmy is always a toss-up in its chance of success with Sam, but the dark expansion of his pupils and the quick flick of tongue across his lips gives Dean his answer even before Sam says “Yeah, okay.” and abandons his book on the table, not even dodging the obvious slap Dean aims at his ass when he passes him. 

All in all, Dean counts it as a win. 

*

They’ve barely gotten themselves out of the shower when Maggie clangs noisily down the stairs into the bunker, two dudes whose names Dean still can’t keep track of trailing after her. Dean breathes through his nose at the way they abandon their packs on the floor of the war room, turning on his heel to put on a pot of coffee while pretending he doesn’t see the worried little glance Sam shoots him. He knows his brother has like sixty to forty odds going that Dean is going to lay one of these fuckers out cold one day and Dean is determined to prove him wrong. 

Doesn’t mean he’s good at hiding his irritation though and the “What?” leaving his lips when they all glance at him expectantly as he returns with the coffee may or may not come out as a bark. 

It’s Maggie who speaks and Dean gives her points for that, knows she’s never comfortable around him, picking up on the prickly unease her very sight still spikes in his chest.

“So you guys are having a party.” 

Dean frowns a little, wondering how that bit of information got exchanged in the three minutes it took for the ancient machine in their kitchen to gurgle up a pot of coffee. Or what he’s supposed to reply.

“Chief’s orders,” is what he settles on and yeah, he’s really not succeeding at keeping the edge from his voice today. 

Maybe if he got more than a couple of hours with Sam before his brother gets pulled into taking care of their Apocalypse escapees again, but as it is Dean stages a calculated retreat, idly pondering how long Sam would let him get away with holing himself up in his room this time. 

The next couple of days don’t exactly provide him with a reason not to as more and more of the hunters arrive, crowding the bunker’s halls until he can’t make a bathroom call without running into someone on the way. By the time Friday night comes around, Dean is giving serious thought to pinning a passive aggressive ‘kitchen rules’ sign to the wall, because if he finds one more of his pots shoved into the fridge with congealed mac and cheese at the bottom, he is seriously going to lose it. 

Instead he vows to trick one of them into touching the 9th century grimoires without pulling on gloves and have Sam yell at them instead. He’s the only one they listen to anyway. 

Unfortunately Dean doesn’t think even Sam’s impressively intimidating lecture on proper archival standards would cow their guests into a less manic state of cheer. They’ve taken the occasion and run with it, and Dean’s not deluding himself that this is in any way about him. This is a ‘we’re alive and nothing too terrible has happened in weeks’ reaction if he’s ever seen one. For them, Michael may still be the bogeyman, but the world around them is alive and unaware and it had to catch up to them sometime. 

Mom arrives with Bobby late in the night and that particular development is still too goddamn weird for Dean to wrap his head around so he doesn’t even try, allowing that desperately pleased, needy part of him that will never stop aching at her very presence to take over as he folds her into a hug. She’s smiling when he pulls back, tucking her hair behind her ear as she glances around at the milling crowd in the war room and library. 

“Looks like you’re gearing up for a rager,” she says and Dean bites back a smile at the term, one of the weird reminders that she got pulled here from the freaking 1980s. “Better make sure you’ve got the powerful stuff under lock and key.” 

Dean swallows the reply on the tip of his tongue. Doesn’t mention that if she hadn’t insisted on bringing these people and then dumped the responsibility into Sam’s lap and taken off, none of them would have to pull babysitting duty for a bunch of survival happy end time refugees. Instead he shrugs, something he never thought would become his go to in conversations he doesn’t want to escalate into something that won’t have a good outcome either way. 

“We’ll turn ‘em loose in the woods before it comes to that. Get some paint guns for target practice.” 

That draws a laugh from her and just then Sam turns the corner, looking slightly frazzled as he sidesteps two guys carrying a freaking keg past him. 

Mary laughs even harder at his expression, still smiling when Sam wraps her in a careful, loose side hug as he joins them. “This must take you back to your college days.” 

Dean’s chest aches at the way Sam returns her smile, not bothering to correct her. The vastness of the history their mother missed out on still knocks him on his ass sometimes and he wonders if it bothers his brother as much as it does Dean. Sam would have been as likely to attend a keger at Stanford as he would have been to streak naked across campus, but Mary doesn’t know that Sam. She never met the dorky, GPA obsessed geek he was back then, never saw the way he would blow the too-long hair out of his eyes distractedly as he bent over a book or scribbled down his notes. Dean is the sole keeper of that knowledge now and the hurt of that is nothing he can ever share with anyone. 

Sam’s eyes shift to meet his and Dean knows his brother can read entire paragraphs in his face when the curve of his mouth tightens unhappily, too quickly for anyone but Dean to pick up on. He makes an effort to smooth out his expression in return, gives Sam his best don’t-make-this-a-thing side glance. 

Mom may think this is about his birthday and everyone else that it’s a way to celebrate their survival, but Dean knows damn well why they’re doing this. Is hit over the head with it anytime he takes in the lines around Sam’s eyes, the stray grey strands Dean delights in finding when he runs both hands through Sam’s hair. 

They never thought they’d make it this far. 

Even 30 seemed ancient to Dean when they got back onto the road together, a far away and unattainable goal. And here they are a decade later. Sam still with him.

That’s a reason to celebrate if there ever was one in Dean’s book. 

So if it will ease the pinched worry that hasn’t quite left Sam’s eyes since Dean stumbled into that church, Dean will gladly put up with the mess this party will very likely turn into. 

And besides. There are some upsides to this thing, which Dean isn’t too proud to recount to Sam after he overhears the conversation between Jack and Cas. Listening to an angel trying to explain birthday traditions to a nephilim and failing ever so spectacularly has to be one of the more hilarious highlights of living with two supernatural creatures. Dean actually rubs his hands in glee when he gets to the part when Cas promised to take Jack shopping for a suitable gift. 

“They’re going to get me some weird shit, man. Ten bucks says it’s utterly inappropriate.” 

Sam’s eyes narrow slightly and Dean literally bites his tongue when he realizes his mistake, silently counting to five in anticipation of the question. But Sam doesn’t react beyond an amused noise in the affirmative, neatly flipping the page of the heavy tome he’s got propped in his lap, attention already back on what he’s reading.

Dean, hopeless optimist that he is, actually allows himself to think he got away with it. 

*

Of course that’s not the end of it. 

They’ve retreated to one of the bunker’s archival back rooms under the guise of shelving some of the more valuable parts of the main collection for the next day. It’s so full of clutter and tucked off to the side no one would stumble upon them even if Sam hadn’t thrown the bolt before pushing Dean against the rickety reading table that slides a few precarious inches backwards, already on his knees getting his jeans dusty as he undoes Dean’s belt.

Usually this sort of no-nonsense seduction is far more up Dean’s alley than Sam’s, but Dean sure as hell isn’t going to complain. Knows the fist-clenching fear of the near miss, the desperate urge to touch what almost slid through your fingers with painful, uncaring ease. In the weeks after he got Sam out of that basement, it was all he could do to keep his hands off his brother when all he wanted to do was touch and touch and touch. That British bitch ruined that for them, too. Even if Dean didn’t have a thousand other reasons to be glad she’s rotting in the ground, that would still make him want to dance on her fucking grave. 

This time it’s different. Sam’s need for him is evenly matched by Dean’s own desperation, by the off-center wrongness he still can’t seem to shake. Like he’s still six feet underwater, drowning in the roiling wake of Michael’s grace. The only time he doesn’t feel completely knocked akimbo in his own body is when Sam’s got his hands on him, grounding him to reality. Like he knows. The bitter seed of that thought blooms darkly in Dean’s mind, because of course Sam knows. He’s lived this twice. 

So Dean allows himself to be swept into his brother’s orbit, hopes faintly that the table won’t collapse before they’re done as he threads his fingers into the softness of Sam’s hair and tries not to buck his hips when his brother finally gets his mouth on him. Sam doesn’t mess around, goes right into sucking him with just the right amount of tongue and pressure, the tips of his fingers digging into the backs of Dean’s thighs as he tries to keep him still. 

Dean does his best to let Sam take things at his own pace but when Sam does that tongue swirl thing Dean’s never been able to quite replicate, his hips jerk forward as if he’s being pushed, slipping deeper into Sam’s mouth. Instead of pulling back Sam just hums and for some reason that just does Dean in right then and there, Sam swallowing him down as he swears and shakes in his brother’s grip. 

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean breathes, because fuck, this must have set some kind of speed record. Sam makes another of those humming noises and Dean slips his hands free of his hair to grab at his collar instead, blindly yanking him up. 

Sam goes easily, the table creaking ominously as his weight settles against Dean. His cock is a hot line of pressure between them as Dean buries his face in the crook of his neck, breathing his brother in. Arms coming up and squeezing him back just as tightly, Sam runs his hands up Dean’s spine until he’s shivering. In the rush of fondness and gratitude he feels towards his brother, Dean almost misses the words Sam mutters against his temple. 

“Why can’t I get you a gift?” 

The realization doesn’t settle into him slowly. It sidesweeps him, knocks him off kilter. He doesn’t have to ask what Sam is talking about, but does anyway, the urge to play at being oblivious overwhelming. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. 

“What?” 

Sam pulls away then, meets his eyes and Dean’s anger leaps into his chest like a crouched animal waiting for its opportunity. Because of course it’s not a coincidence that Sam would bring this up right now. When Dean’s hazy and loose with the knee-shaking orgasm Sam just wrung out of him. His brother can be as underhanded as a back room poker player if it suits him. Sam simply figured he’d have his best chance at an honest answer if he literally caught Dean with his pants down. Jesus. 

When Sam realizes that Dean isn’t going to volunteer any more information on his own, he sighs that patented why-are-you-being-so-difficult sigh that has the ability to get Dean from zero to spitting mad in all of six seconds. 

“Mom got you a bootleg of _Pigeon blood_ we’ve had in the glove compartment since ‘98, Bobby brought some IPA I’m pretty sure you’re going to hate and I’m honestly a little afraid to ask what Jack and Cas bought on their little excursion. Right now I’m the only one following your no gifts rule.”

Dean shrugs. “Looks like you did a shit job laying down the ground rules then. Lazy leadership there, Chief.”

Sam’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t take the bait. “Why am I the only one who can’t get you a gift?” 

“Your money’s my money, genius,” Dean says, pushing against Sam’s chest until he has enough room to tuck himself back into his jeans. “I might as well buy myself a gift.” 

“Dean,” Sam says, his voice all soft, eyes big and shiny. Dean has had enough of this shit. 

He grabs Sam by the front of his shirt, hooks his boot around Sam’s ankle and shoves him off balance, flipping their positions until Sam’s the one who has to fumble blindly to support himself against the table, Dean pressing into him. Dean doesn’t even bother to pull his underwear down, just undoes his fly and grabs him, rubs at the damp spot in the fabric until Sam’s cock is twitching against his fingers. 

“Why is this important to you now?” Dean flips his wrist to get a better grip on Sam, strokes him slow and tight the way he knows drives Sam nuts, thumb rubbing continuously right below the head of his dick where he’s most sensitive. “And I swear, the answer better not be ‘everyone else is doing it’.”

“I just-” Sam gasps, hips bucking into Dean’s hand. “I want to.” 

It’s so _Sam_ Dean very nearly laughs. Instead he slips his hand lower, tugs sharply on Sam’s balls which is kind of a dick move even if it dropkicks Sam into an orgasm every single time without fail. He always complains about aching afterwards, but Dean thinks he can just deal after his little stunt. 

Sam jerks and trembles beneath his palm, a pained little hitch escaping his throat even as he comes into his underwear like they’re still teenagers and trying to fuck around under the bleachers or something. Dean doesn’t jerk him through it but keeps his hands on him, waiting for Sam’s breathing to even out until he steps back. 

Any hope Sam’s taken the hint evaporates when Sam sits up, folding his arms like Dean hadn’t just given him a ninety second orgasm. In anyone else that sort of stubbornness might be something for Dean to admire, but living with it was a goddamn nightmare sometimes. 

“Don’t we have bigger shit to worry about?”

Sam frowns. “Dean, what’s going on?” 

And for some reason that does it. 

“Do you remember what I did with the last gift you gave me?” 

The words are jumbled, almost nonsensical and not even strictly true. Dean’s certain Sam won’t know what the hell he’s talking about, but he can’t even look at his brother to find out whether he’s right, ears ringing with the echo of metal hitting the cheap plastic of a motel trashcan. Dean hears that noise in his dreams sometimes. 

“Oh,” Sam says and then falls silent for a moment. Dean can’t look at him, he can’t. They’ve never talked about this, not once in nearly ten years. 

“I didn’t know you still remembered that.” 

Dean’s head jerks up at that and Sam’s eyes grow wide at what he must see on Dean’s face. “No, Dean, I didn’t mean like- I know you remember it obviously, I just-“

“You just what?” Dean says, unable to hide the rawness of his voice. He can’t believe the afternoon’s devolved into this, the both of them prodding at this ancient wound. “You think I just didn’t care? That I haven’t regretted it every day since?”

Heaven and its bullshitters winding him up and Dean falling for it hook, line and sinker. Dealing Sam the hurt so he wouldn’t be the only one left feeling like his lungs had been pulled from his chest.

“You never said anything,” Sam says softly. 

Dean can’t breathe. He can’t listen to this, not from Sam. 

“Of course not.”

Sam shakes his head, like he still doesn’t fucking get it. “Why not?” 

Dean thinks of the amulet slipping from his fingers. The broken silhouette of wings around his brother’s shoulders. The weight of a hammer in his hand. 

“Because you’d tell me that it’s okay.”

He doesn’t wait for Sam to answer, turns around and strides past the narrow shelves to wrench the door open, leaving his brother behind in the dusty dimness. He closes his eyes in relief when there are no steps following him.

*

Dean half-expects Sam to sit out the festivities, but when Thursday night rolls around, his brother’s waiting for him in the library along with everyone else. The half-smile digging a dimple into his brother’s cheek is the only thing Dean is capable of looking at in a room that’s been decked out and filled with people. When everyone else launches into a terribly off-key version of Happy Birthday, Dean does his best to tear his gaze away, to at least try and react to this like a normal person would. This isn’t the time or place. 

Thankfully it doesn’t take more than three sentences from him to kick off the party and in the ensuing benevolent chaos it’s easy to lose himself in the noise and crowd of people, hands raining down onto his shoulders and offering congratulations that Dean still has no idea how to reply to. Sam’s a constant in his periphery, never straying far but not joining the conversation around Dean either as he talks softly with Maggie and two of the other refugees. He smiles a little each time Dean manages to catch his gaze. 

Only when the food gets brought out does Sam finally sidle over, snatching one of the cartons and offering it to Dean, who takes an eggroll even as his chest tightens with a familiar ache. 

“Chinese?” 

Sam shrugs. “Seemed appropriate.” 

Also a lot of effort, since the closest decent Chinese place was about thirty miles south of Lebanon. But Dean doesn’t say that, knows the gesture for what it is. Chinese is their compromise, neither Sam’s nor Dean’s favorite when it comes to take-out food. The one they would always settle on when Dad threatened to feed them nothing but toast if they couldn’t make up their minds. Dean can’t remember the last time an eggroll tasted this good to him. 

After that the party becomes a lot more enjoyable. There’s a spirited game of beer pong underway and Dean’s not entirely surprised to find their mother absolutely crushing the competition. Someone has hooked their phone to a pair of speakers and to Dean’s horror a good number of the newly minted hunters are dancing to some kind of recent top forty stuff like there’s literally no tomorrow. When Dean mentions this questionable choice to Bobby, he mumbles something about silent radio stations. Dean has to admit that if he lived without music for close to five years, he might be tempted to throw down to Lady Gaga or whatever, too. 

It’s a good night, the kind Dean seals up in his memory vault along with the first time Sam rode a bike right into their neighbor’s hedge, hollering ‘Dean! I’m doing it!’ right before tilting into the shrubbery. One he’ll pull out when everything’s gone to shit again, like it inevitably will.

It’s after two when Dean finally bows out of the strangely intense game of poker at the kitchen table, giving his spot up for Bobby as he into the hallway, nodding to the few stragglers who haven’t made it to their own rooms yet. He hesitates for a moment when he passes Sam’s room, but keeps on walking. It’s probably too soon after last night. 

Besides, Dean doubts he could keep himself quiet with the pleasant buzz he’s got going on, too many people around to overhear. He’ll take Sam on the road once they’ve put some more days in between them and the old hurt the conversation in the archive room scraped free and they can fuck on motel sheets like they’re in their mid-twenties and alone on the road again, nothing but them and the car. Sam will like that. 

Dean doesn’t bother to pull off his clothes, just kicks off his boots as he crawls onto his bed, the soft glow of the lamp on his night stand making him blink, exhaustion settling into his bones. He’ll deal with the whole undressing bit tomorrow, he promises himself as he flops onto his pillow, sliding a hand underneath to make himself comfortable. 

His fingers hit something hard and crinkly and somehow Dean knows, knows before he pulls out the unevenly wrapped shape of it, newspaper ink staining his fingertips. His heart thuds painfully in his chest, throat too tight all of a sudden as he stares at the neat little package in his hand. 

*

Sam’s not in his room. He’s not in the library, war room or kitchen. Dean checks the infirmary and archive rooms, skirting the few people still in the hallways and ignoring happily drunk greetings as he brushes past them. When he finds the gym and their little TV cave deserted, he doesn’t bother returning to the main hallway, heading straight to the garage. 

The spot the Impala usually takes up is empty and Dean heads up the winding driveway at a clipped pace, breathing in deeply when the crisp scent of the silent forest hits him. He shivers a little, bare forearms breaking out in gooseflesh as he steps out underneath the stark winter sky. He spends an idle moment wishing he’d brought a jacket, but there’s no way he’s turning around now. 

The Impala’s parked a few hundred feet down the road, her sleek silhouette an absence of light in the moon-flooded forest. The snow whispers harshly beneath his boots as Dean approaches. 

Sam’s stretched out on the hood like it’s sixty degrees instead of barely twenty, his back against the windshield and head at an angle as if he’s trying to spot constellations through the thick overhang of branches above. He tips his chin towards Dean as he draws close, features drawn sharper by the cold light. Sam’s eyes are dark and unreadable as they shift to where the amulet is swinging gently from Dean’s clenched fingers.

“Happy Birthday.” 

Dean’s throat feels raw, like he’s been slit open from chin to sternum. Clearing it hurts. 

“Sammy…”

“I took it right after you went to the car.” Sam settles back against the windshield, folds his hands onto his chest like he’s looking to take a nap. “Left it at Bobby’s before Detroit. It was still right where I’d hidden it when I went looking for it.”

“Where-” It’s not the question Dean wants to ask, but the others are too painful, too razor-edged for his tongue. Even so his voice gives out.

Sam hears him anyway. “There’s a loose baseboard in my room. ‘S why I picked it.” 

The amulet glints as it turns on its cord in the moonlight. Dean closes his eyes, like that will soothe the sharp swell of breathless aching that’s weighing down his lungs. 

Sam is still watching him when Dean opens them again. His voice is very quiet when he speaks.

“You don’t get to decide for me, Dean.“

“Sammy-“

“No,” Sam says, sitting up. He gestures towards the amulet. “I can’t make you take this. But you don’t get to tell me I can’t give it to you, Dean, that’s bullshit. You don’t get to make up your mind that you’re…unworthy or whatever the hell this is.”

Sam shakes his head, jaw working hard as the next words grate over his tongue. “Dean, don’t you know there isn’t anything you could do I wouldn’t-“ 

“I wish you wouldn’t.” 

The amulet falling from his grasp. Broken wings throwing spindly, horrifying shadows over his brother’s shoulders. The weight of a hammer in his hand. Sammy on his _knees_. 

Dean doesn’t know where Sam’s capacity for forgiveness comes from. He does know it scares him shitless. 

He can’t bear to look at the expression on his brother’s face and so he doesn’t notice Sam has moved until he’s right in Dean’s space, cupping his cheeks in his palms. Jesus, how are his hands still so warm after sitting out here for God knows how long, Dean’s gonna- 

The kiss isn’t a surprise exactly but it calms the noise in his head, the relentless spin he’s working himself into. Allowing himself to slump against his brother, Dean kisses back, relieved to have something to cling to. Sam takes his weight easily, starts pushing him backwards after a few moments. Dean digs in his heels until he realizes Sam wants to get them into the car. 

The air in the Impala feels warm as they climb into the back seat and Dean tells himself his eyes are stinging from the temperature change. There really isn’t enough room for the both of them to stretch out back here, but they make do like always, Sam twisting until Dean can slide between his legs. The amulet digs into his palm, when he puts his hand next to Sam’s head against the leather, propping himself up above his brother. 

Sam’s face shutters when Dean untangles the leather cord and offers it to him. The careful blankness drives another spike of regret up his chest and Dean tips his head forward before it can settle. After a moment of hesitation Sam plucks the amulet from his grip. The cord slides over Dean’s head, catching against his ears until Sam fixes it with careful fingers. Dean catches his hand with his own, presses their palms against his chest, trapping the amulet underneath. 

Sam’s eyes are shining too brightly and Dean’s stomach twists in on itself like it always does when he sees his brother cry. He meant what he told that little theatre nerd. He’s never needed a symbol to remind him how he feels about Sam. It just didn’t occur to him that maybe Sam did. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Sam shakes his head, uses the cord to drag Dean in close, the gesture almost forgotten and achingly familiar all the same. He looks uncertain and this is something Dean can deal with, something he knows how to fix. When he bends down, Sam meets him halfway, mouth open and wet, tongue slipping against Dean’s like he’s been waiting, just waiting for Dean to give in. 

It’s the same. It doesn’t matter how much crap is raining down on them, who has been killed or what’s currently threatening humanity’s very existence, _this_ right here, Sam’s mouth against his, is always the same. Familiar, beloved, making Dean feel like he’s twenty-six all over again.

This whole thing is ill-advised. They’re too close to the bunker, the backseat stopped being a comfortable option long before either of them hit their mid-thirties and Dean would be surprised if the temperature in here pushed more than forty. He doesn’t care. There’s no way he can wait now. 

Sam bucks into him when Dean drags his collar down to suck kisses into his warm skin, right where no one will be able to see the marks. His brother’s hands rake up under Dean’s shirt, sliding calloused palms up his spine until Dean shivers with the slight chill and the feeling of Sam’s fingertips tracing across his back. 

They’re both hard and Dean has half a mind to just do it like this, let instinct take over and rut against his brother like they’re freaking teenagers. Making Sam come in his pants twice in as many days definitely sounds appealing. 

But Sam starts pushing at him, fumbling to get to Dean’s belt, bottom lip caught between his teeth and there’s no way Dean’s ever gonna say no to that. 

Having to half-tumble his way into the front seat elicits a sharp bark of laughter from Sam. Dean flails his arm backwards to cuff him and curses when his knuckles strike the roof instead, drawing another sound of amusement from Sam. Dean briefly contemplates leaving the innocuous tub of Vaseline right where it is in the glove compartment. 

His ire evaporates when he glances back and finds Sam shucking his jeans and underwear into the foot well, the long, perfect curve of his cock jerking as his bare ass settles onto the cold leather, drawing a hiss from Sam. Dean decides to forego his thoughts of revenge, undoes his belt as he clambers back over the front bench, trying to ease some of the pressure. 

Settling himself back right between Sam’s legs, he slips his hands underneath his brother, drawing him onto his thighs as he palms Sam’s ass. Sam looks so good like this, hair falling into his darkened eyes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip and fingers already moving deftly to undo the button and zipper on Dean’s pants. When he pulls the heavy, flush weight of Dean’s cock free, they both groan. 

Dean uses the grip he still has on Sam’s ass to spread him a little, allowing his fingers to slip in between his cheeks. Sam’s already snatched up the lube, slicking up his palm before he wraps it around Dean’s cock, stroking firmly from base to tip, getting him wet. Sucking in a harsh breath at the perfect, fucking _perfect_ way Sammy is handling his dick; Dean tips down his head until he catch his brother’s mouth with his own.

Sam doesn’t stop stroking Dean’s cock as they kiss, fist sliding smoothly, thumb working gently just underneath the head, swiping up and through the gathering wetness at each pass. It’s all Dean can do not do push into his grip, already way to close. Somehow he pulls himself together for long enough to get a hand onto himself, getting his fingers slick before slipping them back underneath and then right into Sam. 

His brother makes a noise like he’s been punched, breaking the kiss. Dean crooks his fingers, watches him toss his head back, baring his neck. The grip on Dean’s cock has become lax and he takes advantage, knocks Sam’s hand aside to pull him in closer, drawing his fingers out as he lines himself up. Sinking himself into Sam, Dean greedily takes in the hitched, perfect little gasps falling from his brother’s mouth, telling him the stretch is too sudden, too much at once and just right all at the same time. 

Long fingers grasp the back of his neck and then he’s being pulled in again, Sam’s mouth right against his as they breathe into each other, settling. It’s not going to last long. Both of them are already too close, Sam’s eyes dark, color high on his cheeks as he tries to even out his breathing and ends up swallowing compulsively instead, clenching down onto Dean each time he so much as shifts his hips. 

The angle is terrible, putting too much strain on Dean’s knees and Sam’s lower back and there’s no way either of them can stay in this position for long so Dean just goes for it, grips the back of Sam’s knees where the skin is growing slippery underneath his fingertips to keep his thighs spread as he fucks into him, not pulling out more than halfway on each thrust.

Sam clutches the back of his neck, his collar, hooks his ankles around the back of Dean’s thighs and draws him in like he can’t bear to let him get away even just to get a decent rhythm going. It’s awkward, it’s fucking cold where they aren’t pressed together and so fucking good Dean can already feel the heat rushing his belly. He bites his tongue until he tastes blood, rolling his hips until Sam gasps and clenches around him, spilling hot and sudden between them. 

Dean drops his head onto Sam’s shoulder in relief, hips working desperately, losing all semblance of a rhythm as he fucks into his brother, fingers digging into Sam’s hips as he squirms against Dean. The amulet is a constant, pendulous presence, tapping against his chest with every thrust and somehow that’s what finishes him, rips him into the instant white-out as Sam strokes the fine hair at the back of his neck.  
They drift afterwards, reluctant to move even with the chill setting back in as the haze of their orgasm slowly wears off. There’s no way they can stay for much longer, even wrapped together as they are, but Sam utters a protesting noise when Dean makes a half-hearted attempt to ease away. Dean slides his hand underneath Sam’s shirt, stroking idly through the soft hair below his belly button until his brother shifts into the touch. 

In a little while they’ll have to move, go back to the bunker or try and find a motel still open in the early hours of the morning. But for now they’re good right here, the Impala sheltering them from the worst of the unforgiving outside world and keeping the secret they’ve entrusted her with like she always does.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed the story, please consider leaving a kudos and/or comment.


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